The Young Vampire, page 15
A strange stew, from which Ferral extracts tender beef, sausages, lard and lumps of meat, which we eat with black bread. An apple cheesecake, strawberries, cream, a little rosé wine and Turkish coffee. It’s the traditional dinner in the Feral household and I’d be disappointed if he served anything else; I never eat anywhere else with as much pleasure.
The weather is mild, and the windows are open. Because there has been a terrible crime—two young men murdering an entire family—we are talking about robbery and murder.
“It’s dangerous,” Chavres said, “to attribute the majority of crimes to some cerebral deformity, illness, degeneration or anomaly. I believe that the general run of criminals are men as sane and normal as anyone else. That many criminals have vices it would be puerile to deny, but those that we categorize as honest by virtue of their judiciary record have no fewer. The abnormal, the degenerate and the sick who commit no crimes or even misdemeanors are legion. Often, they’re creatures of an essential probity and generosity.
“The majority of men remain normally inclined to theft and predation; the number of those among the righteous who would have recourse to murder, without the constraint of the environment and the fear of punishment, is enormous.”
“And what’s astonishing about that?” I said. “Man has scarcely emerged from a normality in which robbery and murder were practiced in all innocence, in which it was as natural to kill a man as a roe deer.
“Brute instinct, which permits the formation of vague families, signifies nothing insofar as human life is concerned. Doesn’t anthropophagy, which is endemic throughout the world, show us quite clearly that the flesh of man is assimilated just like the flesh of any other prey. Belated and obscure traditions eventually protect, for what it may be worth, the lives of people of the group, but only of the group—a protection that would have been virtually worthless without vendettas: murder redeemed by whatever prey, whatever weapon. A murderer could repossess the dead man’s wife; among the barbarians, a sum of money was agreed. And what were human livestock, the slaves, among the peoples whose culture is venerated by us, the Greeks and Romans? What was the serf for the town-dweller or the mercenary?”
“And so,” Chavres went on, “the gendarme, the judge, the prison, even the guillotine, are salutary…”
“Less so, however, than the constraints of the environment, the educational games designed to give murder a monstrous and frightful image.”
“Yes, it’s always necessary to have recourse to fictions! We turn our backs in vain on the mystic gridiron, fall back into the mystical…”
“The monstrous and frightful image is destroyed without overmuch trouble when we encounter the illegal,” murmured Ferral. “There are other images, just as fictitious—for our criminals, ignorant of the primitive code, are contraband primitives.”
“With what facility the non-conformists obtain their recruits! Nothing struck me more, at one time, than the confessions of murderers or thieves, in which one sees, as soon as temptation is offered, a fellow honest hitherto, agree to participate in a burglary or a murder… The story of our two scoundrels is endlessly repeated. Sins of complicity are as routine as sins of love…”
“Ferral,” I asked, as we left the dinner table, “what universe were you talking about the other day?”
“It’s to talk about that that I invited you this evening. You know that, for a long time, I’ve been a rebel against the nihilist conception of interstellar and interatomic spaces. It’s become my obsession. If I didn’t mention it to you any more, it was because I was seeing a means to demonstrate experimentally the self-differentiation of those spaces. The more I thought about it, the more naively anthropocentric the conception seemed of a universe almost all of which was a sort of nothingness, devoid of existence from the phenomenal viewpoint. Most people suppose it to be undifferentiated, in which case nothing happens therein, and nothing can happen therein. The undifferentiation is immutable. The undifferentiation, or homogeneity, cannot have any properties, for all properties suppose a difference. Take note that a scientist, while believing in the homogeneity of interstellar space, can write, with astonishing candor: ‘A very active medium is presently posited, which is not empty but impalpable, but which displays its activity in multiple ways, for, in accordance with its own laws, it transmits action from one particle to another.’ But a little further on, he writes, baldly: ‘The universal substratum is unique and homogeneous.’
“It’s truly formidable! When one thinks that the molecules, atoms and corpuscles of our physical elements are not in contact with one another, that they are only sensible to us by virtue of the space that separates them, that it is from that space that they rebound, that that is what guides the luminous radiations, one wonders how it is possible that men, not only of intelligence but of genius, dare to affirm the homogeneity, the quasi-nonexistence of that prodigious medium.
“I am also quite sure that an idea so rudimentary cannot be admitted for long. We are on the eve of a new conception of the universe, more grandiose, relative to our universe of stars and nebulas than that one is relative to the thesis of a universe of which the Earth was the center.”
“Our universe of stars is practically infinite, though,” Chavres remarked, “and perhaps authentically so.”
“And if it is,” Ferral exclaimed, “the stars and the nebulas are comparable, compared to the totality of space, with the molecules of a few grams of soda dissolved in all of our oceans! The distance that separates our Sun from the star Alpha Centauri is so vast that the Sun occupies less space therein than a sardine in the Pacific Ocean. We can, in consequence, my friend, imagine an extra-sidereal universe—or, rather, universes. I maintain that every region of extent corresponds, on average, statistically speaking, to a quantity of existence equal to that of any other region of equivalent grandeur. An immense number of existences must occupy the spaces that separate the stars, not to mention the spaces that separate molecules, atoms, protons, electrons and photons. I conceive of these existences being formed, like ours, of infinitesimal elements, sometimes scattered, sometimes forming ensembles: one can thus envisage, between two stars, trillions of trillions of worlds, whose existence escapes us because the reactions of their elements offset one another from our viewpoint. Instead of one almost empty universe—since stars, nebulas and radiations only occupy a negligible fraction of it—why not a universe fully occupied, existent everywhere? That universe seems much vaster than the Copernican universe was by comparison with the anthropocentric universe of our distant ancestors—an abstraction made from a few Greek precursors.”
“Your universe,” said Chavres, “is indeed infinitely grander than the universe conceived thus far.”
“For 50 years,” Ferral went on, “but above all since the end of the last century, our science has got closer and closer to etheric elements. With the proton, the electron, the photon, Planck’s quanta and de Broglie’s ‘material’ radiation, we’re approaching the infinitesimal limits of our universe; we’re at the point of discerning some ‘modality’ of universal reaction. For a long time, that reaction has been apparent to us: in admitting that molecules, atoms, protons and electrons are not in contact, that they’re separated by extents that are very considerable by comparison with their smallness, we’ve been forced to agree that every energetic event manifests itself by the intervention of the ether. For, if the corpuscles are not in contact with one another, it follows that we aren’t in contact with anything, that no object is in contact with any other. Don’t forget that, when two billiard balls collide and rebound, none of their elements has been in direct contact with any material element of the other, that the entire reaction is accomplished by universal space. We have no real relationship with anything except that space, which I shall continue to call the ether. Contemporary science is beginning to specify these relationships, increasingly demonstrating the properties of the ether—and to say properties is to say differentiation. A few steps more, and we shall begin to define some aspect of the etheric differentiation, and from then on, the universe existent everywhere will be substituted for the universe reduced to a few items of cosmic dust. Now, I believe I’ve discovered a method of research, and I’m counting on you to develop it. It’s a supplementary theory of radiation that has put me on the track. I’m counting on you two for the experiments—you have complementary abilities. Will you?”
“Are you sure that I can contribute something?” asked Chavres.
“I’ve only invented petty machines,” I said.
“Neither one of you has shown your full measure. To bring delicate experiments to a successful conclusion, your collaboration will be priceless. Enough! You accept.” And he added, ironically: “All that remains is to find the 100,000 francs.”
“A very tiny sum for such research!”
“No, for the laboratory the State has allocated to me contains the basic necessities: the Phister grant has permitted it to be subtly perfected. We only need a few items of apparatus and a few materials to get things under way.” He began laughing softly, and continued: “We shall be the Companions of the Universe!” Then, sadly: “But where will the money come from?”
“A fine thing!” Chavres exclaimed. “The Companions of the Universe are at the mercy of a slight financial hardship!”
VI.
Bullerton has advised me by telegram that he is coming to see me this morning. A dozen words without any further indication than the day and the hour. In principle, that ought to mean that he isn’t backing out of the deal, but I force myself to be incredulous and succeed in being pessimistic. My success in that respect increases as the hour draws nearer, but pessimism doesn’t obliterate hope. It creeps furtively, insinuating itself into every impression and every idea, like a penetrating odor. In any case, it reinforces my black mood rather than attenuating it, by introducing a maddening fear, an oppression of the soul of the sort to which I am liable.
The doorbell. 10 a.m. He’s naturally punctual…
Here are the rectangular shoulders, the smoke-black hair, the mahogany eyes, the dead-leaf complexion and the small teeth encased in the hyena’s jaws. The other has come too—the authentic Anglo-Saxon with the horse’s teeth, the long face and skull, and the sloping shoulders.
Bullerton gets straight to the point. “You haven’t changed your mind?” he says, in his harsh voice.
Here we go! In a minute, everything will be resolved. My tongue is very dry, and I can hear the hammering of my heart.
“No,” I reply. “No change of mind.”
“All right. We’ve looked at everything. The thing is possible. 200,000 dollars cash, and a half a percent per sale. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“In that case, read…”
He has taken a sheet of headed paper from his pocket. The text is brief and clear. I cede the entire ownership of my apparatus to Bullerton, Ruthven & Co., in return for the payment of 200,000 dollars on signature of the contract and half of one percent of the sale price, payable every year at the end of January.
“Now,” says Bullerton, “would you prefer a check or a credit note on the North American and Canadian Bank in New York? A credit note will give you better protection against the exchange-rate, which is becoming highly dangerous. Your choice.”
I choose the credit note. Bullerton bursts out laughing. “As anticipated. Here’s the paper, stamped New York. You’ll have every facility at the Parisian branch.”
He has become cordial, almost affectionate; laughing open-mouthed, with a “boyish” air; he comes to give me a light tap on the shoulder. “I reckon we’ve both made a good deal. I dare say your machine will sell very well, and you’ll make a handsome profit.”
When they’ve gone, I turn the credit note over repeatedly. An insignificant scrap of paper, which, in itself, is absolutely worthless; the words and figures inscribed on it only have power by virtue of the imponderable signatures of Bullerton and Ruthven. A fiction of fictions, which I can transform into a series at will—an enormous series of social and natural realities. Even a magic wand and unlimited wishes fulfilled could do no more.
The unreal will give me an abundance of reality. Already, those 25 letters, diabolically traced, have delivered me from a harsh struggle for existence. They have freed me from yielding to rapacity, egotism, cunning and force, from bowing down before vile, repugnant or cruel creatures. They guarantee me the almost-exorbitant privilege of choice.
Hoisted by them to a superior level, I compare myself to a warrior who only has to make a sign to have an abundance—in his case—of all the wealth of the savannah, the forest, the lakes and the rivers. Powerful Bullerton! Redoubtable prodigy of the credit of the social faith concentrated between millionaires.
Confronted by this prodigy, some mysterious shadow passes back and forth, which gives birth to a malaise, also social, or moral, if you wish—it’s almost the same thing, fundamentally. I desire, feebly at first, then forcefully, to have deserved my chance.
Am I, in some manner, giving the equivalent of the fabulous favor I have been granted? Yes, if—and who can deny it?—discovery and invention are the greatest human values. What would become of the slow and cumbersome beast, so weak by comparison with large carnivores and giant grazers of giant plants, without external equipment, the perpetual leverage upon the environment?
Will my apparatus not augment that leverage in its turn? Will it not supply a new dominion over substance and energy?
It is always too low, the reward of those who multiply human possibilities: not the hundred millionth part of what the coarser conquerors cost—the leaders of every expansion, the merchants, the manufacturers, the money-handlers…a drop of water in a river!
Come on! I can take this money without scruple.
Good, evil! Let’s not be Manichean; let’s not exaggerate anthropocentrism, the transfer to the absolute of elements of conservation, extended across the generations, and then to the ant-hill. The basis is always the search for good pasture or the immolation of prey. While the bee and the ant are emasculated to the profit of the community, a man keeps his organs intact and maintains his personality. In conserving the primacy of the self, one conserves, ipso facto, the transformable energies, the spirit of discovery and invention.
To refuse a windfall like Bullerton’s, even if it were gratuitous, instead of being the profits of an invention, would be to go against a necessary norm. And if it’s necessary, all the same, to hunt for a scruple, isn’t it sufficient that I am able to help Ambroise Ferral, Chavres and Denise, not to mention Gontran Réchauffé? The tax of altruism will be paid!
VII.
While I’m daydreaming, my dog Taureau bursts out of the next room. He’s hideous. The head of a toad, an opaque muzzle, heavy and formless, the chest of a hippopotamus. I admire his jaws, his terrible teeth, his stocky strength. He’s one of those bull-terriers whose stature surpasses that of wolves—but what wolf would stand up to him?
He’s a first rate fighting dog—stubborn and extremely brave. Four individuals like him could defeat a tiger. His soul is surly, ferocious, vindictive, candid and affectionate. This formidable warrior is a slave, a mystical slave, but only to his masters. For others, benevolence, indifference or hostility. He knows the law: the home defended, the passer-by respected. Grave and implacable, he only attacks by order, or in defense of the master and his possessions—but he can make mistakes. At night, he becomes frightful. In total, a heterogeneous combination of the most ancient instincts and a fragmentary but perfect sociality. Slow and ponderous, his intelligence risks being misunderstood. It is real, capable of increase, served by an elephantine memory. The scar of an injury is indelible—but no ill-treatment is injurious coming from the master. I think he is proud, full of an obscure scorn for human or animal multitudes, but devoid of vanity.
We are looking at one another. His eyes are the color of old bronze—globular, pure and puerile. There is something strangely nostalgic in his toad-like face, and occasionally, the skin of his forehead creases over the granite bone. One caress, and that head is rested on my knee. Taureau breathes more rapidly…
Oh, the mystery of origins! How much stronger than a man Taureau would be, without the fraction of the world that man has tailored in his image! In the night of time, Taureau, your ascendancy was conquered long after fire, wood, stone, horn and bone. Man was already the great artist of the Magdalenian, and your ascendancy was still free. Then, Taureau, your life, along with that of the ox, the pig, the sheep and the horse, was placed in the service of the frightful vertical beast.
Now, I find it strange, Taureau, that the servitude in question has had, in sum, such meager consequences. For, to what the people of the Stone and Bronze Ages accomplished, the illustrious peoples of Egypt and Assyria, Hellas and Rome and the frightful Western Europe of the last millennium have, in truth, added very little. So very little! We have limited ourselves to directly multiplying the number and sometimes the variety of individuals, and massacring the species that were still free. Isn’t that inconceivable, Taureau? Can one not say that, in that sense, the genius of the Stone and Bronze Ages is extinct? Although the physical world continued to be “humanized” in a marvelous fashion, they merely repeated what the Lacustrian cities had done in respect of the “humanization” of the organic.
We know full well, dog with a toad’s head, that naturalists, anatomists, physiologists, biologists and therapists have each, in their fashion, with increasing subtlety, studied, some the healthy beast, some the sick beast and some the dead beast, and tortured your peers frightfully, along with guinea-pigs, rats, mice, rabbits, calves, sheep and birds, in order to discover more about the subterfuges of their mechanisms or the secrets of their brains…but that’s work of a different kind than that of domesticators.
